


Harsh Lessons

by enaykin, Valka



Series: The Wolf's Blood [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Blood Magic, M/M, Origin Story, Shapeshifter, beatings, implied rape of a minor, implied torture of a minor, major trigger warnings, throat wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enaykin/pseuds/enaykin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valka/pseuds/Valka
Summary: Valka is tagged co-author because she owns the Inquisitor Faycen was written to be a companion to.This short excerpt details a part of Faycen's story never touched on in Bleeding the Veil, and tells the story of how he got a few of his more obvious scars.WARNING: very dark themes, and heavy content.





	Harsh Lessons

The door slammed shut with a metallic and echoing boom that reverberated through the stone walls, enough to set one’s teeth on edge. However, the lone occupant of the small cell had much more pressing matters to focus on. Namely the lifeblood draining from the gash in his neck with each sluggish pulse of his heart. 

It had been a stupid move. One he knew he’d never repeat if he survived. But it had been so long since he’d last seen a settlement of any kind, and the smell of fresh baked bread and home cooked food had drawn the youth where he ought not have tread. He’d wandered into the small town, staring about in wide eyed wonder. It was the largest settlement he’d ever seen, though it could barely be even called a town. Scant more than a ramshackle village. The townsfolk had shied from him skittishly, offput by the filthy elf boy in clothes that barely fit his skinny frame, his shock of crimson red hair, unusual orange eyes, and freckle spattered caramel skin.

None of this occurred to him, it hardly mattered to him what his appearance was, he scarce even knew what he looked like beyond the wavering ripples he caught sight of in ponds and lakes. Large men in heavy metal armor eyed him warily as he’d wandered, taking in the sights and sounds. The drifting smell of warm bread had caught his attention and he’d followed his nose, stopping before the bakery stall in the market. 

Living alone so long in the wild, he had no notion of society laws or rules, let alone shem settlements. He’d only been with his clan until age six as it was. Therefore it didn’t cross his mind that what he was doing was wrong, in the wild you hunted food, you ate it, sometimes you took it from other animals if you were stronger than they were. It was how things worked. 

A fat, blustering man appeared from around the cart when he’d picked up the loaf of bread. “Ye gots coin te pay fer that, laddie?” His fat jiggled as he spoke and the boy stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. It had been years since he’d last spoken beyond growls, snarls, howls, and yips and the words were barely recognizable to him, but somehow he knew he was in trouble. “Ay! I’s speakin’ ta ya-” his words died in his throat when the boy snatched a makeshift dagger from his pants and sliced open his own wrist. 

Survival of the strong. 

With practiced, sure, though awkward movements he’d thrown out his hands, blood swirled in a fan around him, gaining power until a ball of fire formed between his palms. The baker had shrieked as it flew unerringly at him, incinerating on contact. 

Clutching his bread possessively, the boy’s head had snapped around him in terror as everything seemed to erupt all at once. The men in metal suits shouted and pulled wicked looking blades, townspeople screamed and ran, a bell began to ring from somewhere nearby. Everything in him screamed it was time to escape so he cut his wrist again and more blood welled to the surface. His next fireball was met with the surface of a gleaming shield, splashing harmlessly to the side instead of killing him like he’d intended. Eyes wide in fear he turned and ran, the pounding sound of metal boots hot on his heels. Shifting while moving wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but if he could just get into wolf form there would be no way they could catch him. 

He’d dropped his bread in his mad dash, cutting a new spot on his forearm as his legs pumped, desperately trying to gain some ground. The corner of a house loomed ahead and he thought to duck around the edge, but instead there had loomed the hulking form of another shem with one of those awful shields. He’d been going too fast to stop in time and had collided painfully with the hard surface, blacking out a moment. 

When he’d come to it was to the feeling of something being jammed forcefully into his mouth and his nose pinched shut. Whatever it was he was forced to choke it down, feeling it burn the whole way, the taste sour and foul. After a moment he realized what they’d done. He knew enough herbs in the wild and their properties, they had mixed a particular plant into that liquid and he knew it wouldn’t matter how much blood he spilled, magic would not come to his call for a few hours.

His vision cleared and his eyes darted between the hulking forms of four men standing above him, his hands were roughly tied behind his back, painfully tight, his face felt tender and bruised, and they were looking at him with a terrifying gleam in their eyes. 

The next few hours were a blur of pain and humiliation, the same word “maleficar” repeated over and over.

Cut, bruised, and broken they had dragged him at last to a secluded cell. The youngest of the lot had been ordered to cut his throat and leave him for dead. The boy wasn’t sure if it was fortunate or not, but the young man had been shaking, unsure, and his cut had gone shallow, enough to slice the skin, but not enough to hit any arteries or cut anything vital. Then they had dumped him on the floor and left, their laughs echoing back to him as they receded down the hallway.

Tears of shame and rage pricked his eyes as he pressed a hand to his neck, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. He was going to die here. He was going to bleed out and he had no idea why they had done this to him. His muscles screamed in agony even though he wasn’t moving, but he could feel the potion wearing off. He’d have his magic back soon. Had he used regular magic it would have taken longer to return, but because he used the power of blood the effect of the potion wasn’t as strong.

The energy it took to rip off his sleeve and wrap it around his oozing neck took much out of him, but finally he managed to bind the wound before continuing to lay there, counting the hot pulses of agony shooting through his neck. A tiny squeak caught his attention and he watched with glazed eyes as a small mouse scuttled into the cell through a hole in the stone. Had he been stronger he’d have considered studying the mouse, learning to shift and escaping. As it was, he felt he might not even have the strength to stand. 

Hours ticked by, the sky darkened and the moon shone brightly through the cell window high above him. Still he continued to lay there, watching the little creature scurry about his cell. Out of habit he tracked it, observed its movements, watched how its body moved, the direction joints bent, the shape of the skeleton beneath, the play of muscles under the fur, how it used its tail to balance, the patter of its tiny paws. Whiskers twitched, ears flicked around, listening, the little black wet nose snuffled, the beady little eyes darting around, catching everything.

He imagined the life of the mouse, scurrying around, searching out scraps of food, evading predators, creating a warm nest comprised of little strips of cloth and straw and felt a kinship with the creature. All he wanted to do was escape and disappear once more into the wilds. Storms take these cursed beings! They may look like him, but he considered _them_ more beasts than the animals he considered his pack and friends. An animal had _never_ done to him what these men had just done.

No. Survival of the strong. He’d escape. He had to.

Forcing himself to a sitting position, he allowed himself tears over the agony in his hips, thighs, and neck, nursing the plethora of darkening bruises all over his frame. The makeshift knife had been taken from him, and the blood from his neck was partly congealed and sluggish, not good for casting. His only recourse was to bite the inside of his mouth. Blood welled between his teeth and he grinned, curling his lips back to allow the blood to escape. 

This was the moment when he discovered how painful it was to shift with an open wound. A ragged cry ripped itself from him as his form began to morph and change. Bones slid freely under his skin, rapidly reducing in size, his snout grew and teeth elongated, whiskers shoved to the surface and his eyes turned black. Fur sprouted across his skin, a tail elongated out his spine, joints snapped and reversed, muscles tore and reformed, but the cut on his neck and the pain in his hind end, those were excruciating. The gash tore and reshaped, now greatly reduced in size it was really more of a pin prick on the form of the mouse, but it once again bled freely. 

Huffing and snuffling in mind numbing pain he staggered in his new form, attempting to adjust to his new limbs and tail. Normally learning a form took days, even weeks of study. This was the fastest he’d ever pushed it and it showed. He was awkward, fumbling, mostly dragging himself bodily toward the little hole and freedom. 

It took most of the night of bleeding and struggling, but he finally made his way out of the stronghold and to the edge of the town, leaving tiny trails of blood the entire way. His mind was a haze of pain and rodent instinct, but he knew he’d have to shift back to elf form soon or he would die of blood loss, or worse be snatched up by a seeking hawk. 

Soft squeaks of pain morphed into ragged weeping as his body ripped itself apart and reshaped into his adolescent elf form, blood poured freely from his neck with each pulse and he clamped down on it with grasping and fumbling fingers. Quickly he ripped away the soaked rag tied around his neck and yanked off his other sleeve, attempting to staunch the flow. 

Struggling to his feet he staggered off into the treeline, determined to put as much distance as possible between him and this accursed village as his body could stand.

It simultaneously felt like only a few moments and also like an eternity before he collapsed face down in the dirt in a small clearing, his breathing ragged and gasping, black hemmed his vision. All that pain and suffering and he was going to die anyways. His breath huffed in the dirt and he closed his eyes. 

“Well then, rude o’ you ta drop in an’ bleed all o’er th’ place, ain't it?” A wizened, old voice cackled above him before strong hands gripped him under his armpits and dragged him up. “Ah, th’ maleficar th’ templars ‘ave been screamin’ ‘bout, bet my left nut an’ call me a ninny.” He could barely focus on the rasped words, his mind uncomprehending as the man cackled again and proceeded to half drag him, half carry him somewhere. 

More gently than he’d expected he was set down on something soft. “Agh,” the noise sounded disgusted, “templars’re worse th’n qunari savages, let me tell ya. Let’s get this fixed up, eh?” Probing fingers tenderly worked across the cut on his throat, sending shockwaves of agony coursing through him. Darkness overtook him a few times, but several times he came to, the blurry figure of an old man crouched close to him, cleaning the filth from the wound and doing something that pulled on it, sending him reeling back into darkness again. 

For an indeterminable amount of time he floated in blessed blackness, hidden away from the horrible men, the pain, the humiliation. Abruptly it all came back with a loud noise that rudely woke him. His eyes shot open and he tried to move, but shooting pain in his neck forced him to lie still. 

“Templars’re ‘ere, laddie. Time fer ya ta get scarce.” A stooped, wrinkled, gnarly old man shuffled his way over and picked him up way more easily than he should have been able to. “F’rgive the hidin’ spot an’ th’ smell. Figure ya’d rather live though.” With that he kicked open a barrel and lowered him gently into the container, the boy found it to be half full of animal intestines and organs. The smell was overwhelming and the feeling of everything squishing beneath him almost brought bile from his empty stomach, but he held it down, allowing the man to dump more on top of him. The barrel slammed shut only moments before the boy heard the door burst inward. 

The raised voices were all too familiar and he trembled as the burly men shouted and raged, searching the small shack for the “maleficar.” The lid of the barrel was ripped off and summarily slammed back down at the smell and sight within, completely missing the terrified and blood covered face of the elf boy hiding inside. 

After what felt like an eternity of searching and turning the poor old man’s house upside down they finally left, the man cackling and rambling the entire time. When the sounds faded away and he was sure they were gone the old man pulled the lid off. “It worked, dinnit?” His toothy grin was met with a terrified and shocked face.

“Come now, let’s get ya cleaned up an’ take care o’ th’ rest o’ these wounds.” The boy flinched back from him, but the man was patient and gentle and soon they had him out of the muck and brought him to the well, fishing out a bucket of soothing, cool, clean water. Completely drained, the boy offered little resistance as the man cleaned him, helping him remove his shirt and wash it, cleaning the various cuts and bruises, as well as washing all the blood and filth away. The man hobbled away for a moment before returning with a worn but clean wool spun pair of pants and shirt for him, turning his back and allowing the boy to change, understanding what had likely happened to him in that templar’s tower. 

Once satisfyingly clean and not smelling anymore he led the boy inside and fed him, watching in amused fondness as he wolfed down several helpings of stew and bread baked the day prior. The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and though he may be a blood mage, no one deserved that fate. He’d had yet to speak either, prompting the old man to wonder if he even knew how, even if he seemed to understand him. 

“Me name’s Bavorn. What can I call ye?” He asked when the boy finally slowed down in inhaling his food and seemed satisfied. Those massive, unusual sunset eyes blinked at him a moment. He did have a name, but it had been so long since he’d even thought about it. Animals had no use for names. Echoes of his past rippled in his mind, faces he’d rather forget. 

Faycen.

Faycen Malik. That was his name.

But forcing those words from his mouth was another thing entirely. Attempting to form them felt like shifting for the first time and he was much too tired to try. 

“At’s alright, laddie. Not ta worry. Yer in good company here, so rest ‘an heal.” The old man grinned, pricked his finger with his knife, a small fireball formed over his palm and he tossed it onto the waning fire, stoking life into it. Faycen blinked at him in disbelief. Had the metal men done evil things to this old man too? 

A chuckle bubbled out of him. “I can see th’ questions poppin’ th’ top o’ yer head right off.” One gnarled finger tapped the top of Faycen’s head and the boy flinched. “C’mere. Let me get th’ tangles out o’ yer hair while I talk. Been too long since I had a head o’ hair such as yers.” 

Gingerly Faycen turned his back to the man, warily keeping an eye on him. The man was like him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish him harm. Though he’d saved his life, hiding him from the metal men. _Templars_ , he’d called them. The man took out a handle with little brush like spines on it and began to work out the tangles from the ends of his crimson hair. The ministrations were soothing and Faycen found himself relaxing into it. 

“Not all men’re like th’ ones who hurt ya. But many o’ them are, ye’ve clearly been w’out adult influence in yer life to know better. Ya gots ta be extra careful where ya use yer magic. Th’ way we use it is forbidden, they’ll kill ya fer doin’ it.” This startled Faycen. He didn’t understand, why didn’t people use magic like him? It was so much easier. “‘Tis better ta not trust a soul ‘til they prove their worth. Remember that, laddie.”

The rest of the evening was spent leaning up against the old man’s knobby knees, allowing him to brush his now glowing and silky hair while he droned on about life and it's annoying rules. There was so much Faycen hadn’t been aware of. People were stupid. Animals were so much easier. 

Eventually his monologue ended with him falling asleep in his chair, snoring loudly. For a long time Faycen just sat there, staring at the fire, contemplating all he’d learned. 

When dawn’s light tickled the old man’s face through the window, bringing him to wakefulness he was not surprised to find the boy gone. Not a thing was disturbed, no food was taken, the clothes he’d worn were in a small pile on the bed, his own clothes were no longer on the line, he was simply gone. The old man chuckled and shuffled to the door of his lodgings, looking out into the forest the boy had disappeared into. 

“Not all men’re evil, lad. Ye’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> enaykin.tumblr.com


End file.
